But I can’t help it. Something will occur and I’ll seem to drift off for a moment. Here’s what happened earlier:

Scene – at the bar. A neighbour (by which I mean a fellow villager, not the fellas on either side of my house) leaves his lively table and arrives beside me at the bar to pay his tab. He looks at the printed out bill.

Neighbour: (Quietly) “How much is that? I can’t read it.”

Barman: “£34.35.”

Neighbour: (loudly) “Is it? Right…” (digs out his cash card)

Another drinker from my neighbour’s table: (shouting) “How much is it?”

Neighbour: “£200. And I only came in for a half.”

Laughter from the table. The barman puts the PIN machine on the bar top and my neighbour slots in his card. And then pauses.

Neighbour: (to barman) “I can’t see the numbers. You’ll have to put them in.”

Bar landlord: “Don’t worry, he knows the PIN numbers of half the people in the village.” Continue reading →

Trust me, I’m a doctor… or a nurse or an anaesthetist or a radiologist or just a bloke painting the corridor wearing a white coat. Easy mistake to make. Happened to a mate of mine. The people who collared him were overwhelmingly grateful that he’d saved their son’s life. He hadn’t the heart to tell them he was only there to give the walls another layer of ghastly green.

I know that a sainted reader of this very blog will be working in one over Christmas. And also – the Loose Bloggers Consortium threatened to shove me off my trolley if I didn’t write something about hospitals. (Ha! Too late – I’ve been off my trolley for years now.)

So in honour of those caring souls sharing their Hypocratic benevolence on hospital wards at this time of year, here’s a guide to the abbreviations they use. (Just so the rest of us can be quicker on the uptake and not force them to waste time explaining themselves.) Those of a sensitive disposition may scroll straight to the bottom for the less offensive video.

My great disappearing act took place at the height of my professional theatrical fame. For the princely sum of £5 and a bottle of Fanta (a night? or was the £5 for a week?) I trod the same boards the feet of Liam Neeson, Ciarán Hinds and Adrian Dunbar had before me. I played the eldest of Macduff’s sons in Shakespeare’s Scottish play at the Lyric Theatre in Belfast.

My main role was to die defending my Mum against the king’s hired killers – a bit of dramatic struggling and swooning after being stabbed. But it wasn’t all action. Oh no – I had lines too. A couple of Yeses and then that immortal exclamation.

Thou liest, thou shag-hair’d villain!

That’s what everyone remembers from that play, isn’t it? Never mind all that hubble bubble toil and trouble or being steeped so far in blood. Oh yes.

On the final night of the run, the usual murder happened. (Obviously I could have beaten the killers if I’d wanted, but I had to let them get away with it for the sake of the play. Just wanted to make that clear.) The murderers fled, leaving the bodies of me and my mother and brother strewn across the stage. Then the lights went down completely, leaving the stage in complete darkness to allow us to drag our carcasses off stage.

The Loose Bloggers Consortium said: Write about culture. The Fountains Abbey pub opposite St Mary’s Hospital immediately came to mind. A plaque on the wall claims that the bacterium that led to Alexander Fleming’s discovery of penicillin could have wafted out the pub window along with beer fumes, across the road and into the window of his office – leading to the contamination of the culture in his petri dish. The rest is medical history. (And good news for some of my World War Two relatives.)

Blackwatertown

Blackwatertown - the blog & the book - are by Paul Waters. So is The Obituarist. I also make radio & TV shows. Leave a comment or email me at paulwaters99 at hotmail.com . Thanks for reading. Paul
PS: It's not a kangaroo, it's a horse's head, which might be from The Godfather.

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Please download The Spirit of Christmas charity single to raise funds for the National Autistic Society and special needs education. It was written by my 10-year-old friend Fynnjan who has Aspergers. Let's get it to No.1 in the Christmas charts.